


So Paint Me a Clear Blue Sky

by Onefootinelysium



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 04:51:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14012568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onefootinelysium/pseuds/Onefootinelysium
Summary: I know you're seeing black and whiteSo I'll paint you a clear blue skyWithout you I am colour blindIt's raining every time I open my eyesDraco knew the world in black and white until he met Potter, the most obnoxious git with the greenest eyes, his supposed soulmate. But notice that “supposed” is key here, because magic was, in fact, chaotic, and Potter, in fact, hated him. But Draco was fine with that, he hated Potter, too.The only thing Draco hated more than Potter, however, was how Potter could light up his sober, grey world, and how badly he wanted Potter to stay.





	1. All Your Lights Are Red (But I'm Green to Go)

**Author's Note:**

> AU where wizards are colour blind until they meet their soulmate. After meeting their soulmate, this colour blindness can still recur, as a result of the emotional state of the said individual, or their distance from their soulmate.  
> In this fic, Draco’s colour blindness causes him to see only shades until he met his soulmate. However, in real life, colour blindness is often less extreme, and is related to having trouble seeing red, blue and green, which is similar to Harry’s case here.  
> Lastly, this fic was inspired by the lyrics to “Blue” by Troye Sivan and this http://thegeminisage.tumblr.com/post/94680598838

Draco supposed it was perfectly normal that he only saw the world in monotones until the age of eleven.

Before that, of course, his parents had explained patiently how witches and wizards are colour blind until they meet their soulmate. They tried to describe to him what colours looked like, struggling and failing to pin down this inherent perception of light and pigmentation with words. After all, how could one substitute colours with language? How could one describe a sense to another who never had it?  
You can never yearn for something you’ve never had, people said.  
That was the poetic irony of it, Draco supposed. Falling in love and seeing colours. Both being something allegedly devastatingly beautiful, but beyond understanding and perception to one until they experience it.  
So all he could do was to dream grey, childish dreams, and open his eyes every morning to washed-out skies.

This is it. He thought. The light of the thousand candles were pale like doves, and the oak doors dark and weighty. He was lost amidst a sea of first years, waiting to be sorted.  
He craned his neck and scanned the colourless faces, a bit hopefully, a bit desperately, waiting for a change in his spectrum of bleached shades. He saw a head of unruly dark curls; a round face under a black, pointy hat; long, tangled locks that were various shades of grey; pale cheeks with light freckles, still devoid of any hints of colour; a strange lightning-shaped scar, upon eyes that…  
Draco gasped, his own eyes watering from the sudden change of… What was it? Light? Did it suddenly become too bright? He was stumbling, pulling in air that felt too concentrated into his lungs. At first, he did not understand the throbbing in his head, the sharpness that came with each blink, but then it hit him. Colours. His mind supplied. He was seeing colours.  
The world melted and morphed and stood on its toes as Draco drunk up everything around him. This was colours, the wonderful, heart-achingly beautiful thing his parents spoke of.  
It was as if he had been held underwater, and now his head finally crashed through the surface. What he could only guess were yellow and orange and brown and beige and maroon assaulted his retina, and the unfamiliarity kept the headache pounding behind his eyes. But he looked, and looked and looked, devouring the alien world he stood in, a grin spreading across his face until his cheeks hurt.  
He knew it was the boy with the green eyes that made him start to see colours, his feet were carrying him before he even realized, towards the shocking mess of jet black hair. As if drawn by some ancient, mysterious power, he felt every nerve in him singing as he walked towards Potter, and when he held his hand out to the boy, it felt so fucking right that he thought he would burst.  
Until Potter turned him down like the wanker that he is.  
“Who’d want to be friends with you anyways?” Draco sneered, tucking his empty hand into his pocket. Potter glared back at him, his eyes a fierce green under his atrocious hair.

Green was the first colour he saw. Draco was certain.  
Sea glass, emerald, silk curtains around his bed, sunlight filtering through the surface of the lake, Potter’s eyes.  
Draco screwed his own eyes shut, pretending that he couldn’t still feel Potter’s burning its way into his brain. He punched his pillow.  
“I hate him,” he hissed to the darkness.


	2. Swore I'd Never Loose Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicidal thoughts, attempted suicide

Five years had passed ever since Draco found out that Potter was his soulmate.  
He had managed to convince himself since then that it couldn’t be, magic was notorious for being chaotic and unpredictable, thus, there surely had been a mistake. The only remotely significant feeling that they ever experienced towards each other would be hatred.  
And Draco was perfectly fine with that. Potter hated him with the boiling, red-gold passion of a Gryffindor, and Draco hated him right back with a sick, obsessive vehemence that crawled like snakes in his bloodstream.  
He grabbed onto that hatred like a lifeline.  
He could feel its burgundy tendrils curling around his heart, cutting off the oxygen bit by bit. All he could do was let it strangle him because no, he could not afford the hate to turn into anything else.  
Not now.  
Draco would never forget the excruciating pain, exploding in white sparks around his vision, as the Dark Lord carved the ugly Mark into his forearm. He breathed jagged steel-grey and tasted warm crimson in his mouth, hating himself all the while as he held onto Harry Potter’s green eyes like a lifeline when he slipped beneath lapping ebony waves.

Draco thought he heard a soft gasp when Goyle swung his trunk off the rack. His mind conveniently supplied him with the name of one particular wizard who would most likely be hiding there, wrapped in a certain Invisibility Cloak of his, spying on Draco and listening to his conversation. He waved for his mates to go without him, then he closed the compartment door and tugged down the blinds.  
“Pertrificus Totalus!”  
He really couldn’t say that he was surprised when Potter tumbled to the floor, eyes comically wide and body paralyzed in an absurd curled-up position.  
Bloody hell, Draco had nearly forgotten, after a rather dreary summer, what Potter’s presence did to him. It was too late, his head was already swimming, and he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself as his surrounding settled into more saturated hues. Potter’s wide eyes were, inconveniently, greener than ever.  
He hated this. This humiliating reminder of how bleak his world looked without Potter.  
“Knew you’d be lurking around, Potter,” he sneered down at him, “Hoping to hear something interesting, weren’t you?” Draco swore he could sense the tosser channeling all his strength into struggling against his full body-bind, his eyes burning.  
It happened gradually then all at once, the loss of control. Potter’s presence broke a dam in his mind like a tidal wave. His magic trembled, pulled so thin and tight it was about to snap any second. His hands were trembling, all the things he struggled to not feel was suddenly digging into his mind like shards of sea-green glass.  
“Well, you were out of luck, seeing how I spent the whole ride staring out the window,” he continued into the silence breathily, “But while you’re here…”  
He wanted to run away and cry, he cannot hold Potter’s gaze any longer. He was about to snap.  
Before his better judgement could get ahold of him, he stamped down on Potter’s face, hard, feeling the bridge of his nose crack under his heel. Bloody spurted out, unchecking, shockingly red to Draco’s sensitive eyes.  
“That was for my father.” He spat numbly, suddenly sick to the stomach at what he’d done.  
A younger Draco Malfoy would have taken the time to cover Potter with his invisibility cloak, leaving him bleeding on the floor, letting him be taken back to London.  
Now, Draco realized he couldn’t convince himself to do it.  
He stalked out of the compartment feeling more empty than ever, he whispered the counter-spell as he hopped off the train and into the night.  
\-------------------------------------------------  
Draco was tired. Stumbling weary steps on the path to a cause he no longer support. His father, Dumbledore, Katie Bell, Weasley… His conscience ached, and he wondered how many he would take down as he writes his own doom. He hated himself so fucking much.  
“Oi! Malfoy! Where do you think you’re off to?”  
Draco’s back stiffened at the familiar voice. He spun around, irritated at how the colours danced a little more brightly as he glared at vivid green eyes.  
“None of your business, Potter.” He spat.  
“Oh, I think you and your evil plans are very much my business,” Potter sauntered up to him until his breath was warm on Draco’s face, his voice daggers to Draco’s ear, “Admit it, Malfoy. It was all you.”  
Draco’s fingers twitched, he felt subtle sparks fly off his wand as his magic thrummed at the closure. He stubbornly refused to acknowledge the colours shimmering bolder in his eyes, almost humming in time with his magic, because Potter was too close, and Draco wanted nothing more than to punch the infuriating git’s mouth. The closeness was suffocating to him.  
Before he knew it, Draco was grabbing him by his stupid red-and-gold tie and slamming him hard against the nearest wall, snarling: “You haven’t a bloody clue what this is about, Potter. So for Merlin’s sake, do yourself a favour and leave me the fuck alone.”  
The bastard only smirked at him through the rosy haze of his anger. “I’d find out, and I’d stop you, you know. But I don’t think you’re even up for it in the first place,” and he was closer, exhale ghosting on flushed skin, “You know you’re not like them, Malfoy. I can help you, we can find a way out.” And Draco growled with frustration at how green Potter’s eyes were, now that their faces were inches apart. “Sod off, Potter. I don’t need your help.” He gritted out through clenched teeth.  
Merlin, he hated him so much.  
And he dearly hoped that Potter did not notice how his hands trembled as he released him, stalking off with as much dignity as he could muster, trying to blink away the guilt and the greyness clouding his vision.  
He hated himself more.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Draco bent over the sink, black and white seeping through the corners of his eyes like ink mingling with water. Quietly, quietly, he let himself fall apart behind the closed door.  
He couldn’t do it. He cursed his treacherous conscience, hating how his wand felt heavier and heavier in his hand as he wove one after another unwilling spells for his hopeless task. He cursed the Dark Lord, his father, and a foolish, younger Draco Malfoy, who thought it would be fun to cast ruthless curses like his aunt, who thought it would be an honor to grovel at the feet of a madman, selling his morality for a fallacious cause.  
He hated and hated himself, for being an idiot, for being a slave to his past sins, for not finding the strength to hold onto his last shred of good, for not fighting back and only letting himself be rendered to a shell with the mark of his mistakes branded onto his arm.  
There is no way out.  
Myrtle’s silvery form hovered behind him, words meant for comfort coming from her translucent lips, but Draco could not hear. He imagined the icy skin of his wrist splitting open, rusty scarlet spilling from the wound, colliding relentlessly with the murky water, blossoming like muted, sickly flowers. He imagined his pitiful life bleeding away from between his fingers, drip by drip, unstopping, till he was nothing but rotting bones. He contemplated the hollow eyes of a corpse, its lopsided grin bleached in his reflection.  
He would do it, he thought, no more hurting, no more breaking. He didn’t know whether he meant himself or others. All he knew was that he could make it all stop.  
No more. No more.  
He chanted the words like a mantra in his mind as he reached for his wand.  
Just one spell to send everything tumbling over the chasm. Just one spell to finally clear the blood on his hands.  
No more. No more. No more. The words pounded in time with his heartbeat at his throat.  
All he could see were leaden claws, reaching for him from the pits of oblivion.  
“Malfoy?”  
For Morgana’s sake. Of course, of fucking course Potter would choose this moment to walk in. The moment shattered. Draco felt the treacherous rise of something tender like hope in his chest. He hated himself for being so weak.  
Their eyes met in the mirror, Potter’s were soft and green and round with shock. Draco, despite the drying tears on his face, clenched his wand a little tighter, his knuckles turning skeletal white. Something dangerously close to pity crossed Potter’s face, and anger rose to Draco’s head in a rush, making him turn around and throwing an acid-green hex right at the git’s stupid face. Potter countered with one of his own, and Draco ducked just in time as it whizzed over his shoulder, hitting the pipes and causing a fountain of water to gush into the air, drenching them both.  
Suddenly, Draco never felt so fucking alive. He clung onto the fire igniting in his heart, scalding scarlet flames burning through his bloodstream and lighting him up like he was the ceiling of the fucking Great Hall.  
“Expelliarmus!” He yelled, the spell bouncing harmlessly off Potter’s shield. Myrtle was screaming for them to stop, but neither Draco nor Potter heeded any attention to her, letting loose their iridescent magic in the small bathroom, causing more pipes to burst and more water to pour down on them, soaking them to the bones.  
“Stupefy!” “Incarcerous!” “Impedimenta!” Their cries bounced off the waterlogged walls, hexes and jinxes careening past each other’s heads with flashes of light, coming in violent colours faster than Draco could name. Azure, emerald, fuchsia, saffron… His eyes stung, and he winced as one of Potter’s spells scratched him, spreading needles of pain down his arm.  
He was breathing heavily, slipping in water up to his ankles, lost beyond reason in his hatred for the boy in front of him. Potter shirt clung to his chest, water dripped from his jet-black hair and his dark eyelashes, the droplets mapping trails down his neck and his arms. He was alight with the livid shades of neon burning around him, the smell of sulfur and fireworks lifting off him like a fog. Draco struggled to not close his eyes, and he held on fast to his hatred, clutching it in his salt-tinged hands, as he tried to not get lost in Harry Potter’s kaleidoscopic heat.  
Merlin, he hates him so much. For being so good, for being so damned noble, for being Draco’s supposedly soulmate, for making things so hard to let go…  
“Cruc-” The curse ripped free of his lips, and Potter was dodging aside and bellowing one of his own.  
“Sectumsempra!”  
Draco saw red.  
A distant part of his mind supplied that maybe this was fate’s twisted way of fulfilling his wish. The coppery tinge of blood was everywhere, overloading his senses like a current rushing through a circuit, shooting up in his body in spikey maroon explosions and searing his nerve endings in puce red flames.  
His vision tunneled, wavering from watery red to black and white. The pain screamed through his core, pulsing and raging like a beast as he dimly registered Myrtle’s shrill cries and Potter’s hoarse shouts. Draco shivered uncontrollably, choking on his own blood thick in his throat, positive that his very soul was trickling in streams out of his gaping chest.  
The last thought that he had before the world faded into darkness was that he didn’t think he was quite ready to go, because he just realized that someone's green eyes and strong hands were worth living for.


	3. Can't Say No

Draco kept his head high as he heard footsteps behind him.

“Malfoy, wait!”

“Planning to practice your dark curses again, Potter?” He tossed the words over his shoulder, relishing the silence that ensued. 

“Look, Malfoy,” a hand clasped his elbow and he was being spun into Potter’s green gaze, “I’m sorry.”

Instinctively, Draco leaned into the touch, letting his muted world soak in the riot of colours that Potter’s presence always seemed to bring. He tiredly acknowledged that he no longer attempted to resent this, and the realization startled him.

“Let me go, Potter.”

“No,” hands tightened around his arms, “Let me help you. Go to Dumbledore with me, the Order can protect you.”

“Don’t mean to disappoint, but I no longer trust people who slice me open in deserted bathrooms.” 

Potter winced a little at that, “I’m  _ sorry _ , okay?! Please, Malfoy, whatever he’s making you do, you don’t want to do it.” Draco only glowered at him, feeling himself unravel under the quiet words. “You’re not one of them,” Potter whispered,.

“Have you  _ seen _ what I did, Potter?” His own voice was like sandpaper to his ears, “Have you seen Bell? Or Weasley? Or have you forgotten?! H-how could you look at  _ them _ , and still think that I’m not a Death Eater?! A-a killer?! Who are  _ you _ , Potter, to say that there’s still hope for me?! That I would- like some moron- decide to join your side?!”

“Because I saw your face in the mirror, Malfoy!” Potter yelled over him, “I bloody  _ saw _ how much pain you were in! You were never on Voldemort’s side! You’re not your father- or your aunt, no matter what you try to tell yourself! Why’d you think I’m offering this,  _ Draco _ ?! Because I’m some bloody  _ saint _ ?! Because I’m  _ blind _ ?! Why is it so hard for you to believe that I think you deserve a second chance?!”

_ Oh. _

_ He called me Draco. _

He felt like melting. His stuttering breath was drawing in the scent of pine and fresh-cut grass by the lungful, and he could sense  _ something  _ tumbling through his resolve, sweeping up his pieces and hurling him over a cliff, right into Potter’s gravity. He absent-mindedly counted how long has it been since he last slept, because  _ surely _ he was hallucinating at this point. The Potter he knew and hated would never call him  _ Draco _ .

“Don’t pretend you’re not wishing you’d killed me when you had the chance, Potter.” He mumbled.

“No, actually. I don’t exactly fancy not being able to tell apart red and yellow.”

_ Merlin and Morgana and Rhiannon. _ Draco’s heart shuddered painfully in his chest.  _ So he sees it too. _

Potter’s hair was tickling his forehead, his exhale soft on Draco’s flushed cheeks, and his eyes stole away all hints of colour from the rest of the world.

He couldn’t think.

His eyelids fluttered shut as he swayed towards Potter’s heat, searching to cover the distance between them, braving that distance of a thousand seas. He wanted to feel the things that became so alien to him- comfort, trust, happiness, love.

He would be lost, right here, right now. With Potter’s hands printing ocean green on his arms.

He would let Potter save him, he thought. He would let himself be saved.

_ No, no, no. _

_ Hissing tongue, bloody eyes, colourless features. _

_ Long, spidery fingers, gripping his shoulder. Scarred lips, ghastly whispers at his ear. _

_ No, no, no. _

_ Do not fail me, boy. _

_ Think of your poor father. _

_ He’s lucky that I did not tear him apart limb-by-limb. _

_ You are no better. _

_ You can never hide from me. No one would protect you. _

He was a fool to think that there’s a way out.

Draco scrambled for reason, for logic, for common sense. He wrestled Potter’s hands away, refusing to dwell on the phantoms of his fingers on his skin. “Malfoy!” “Don’t, just fucking  _ don’t _ , Potter.”

He ran, letting his legs carry him off before his muddled mind could catch up, footsteps pounding and echoing on cold, unforgiving walls. Staircases and corridors blurred, and he went for the only place he knew would be safe from Potter.

He plunged into the Room of Hidden things, fell on his knees amidst centuries of shameful secrets and screamed. Torrents of fears and doubts and aches strangled him, squeezing him in their vengeful claws. They dragged ragged sounds from his throat, again and again, until it was raw and bloodshot.

He stayed there for a long time, crumpled behind the towering shelves, grey spots dancing in his vision. He let the tsunami sweep him away, and he refused to speculate exactly what he hid from all this time.

\------------------------------------------------

The only things that kept him moving were the threats of the Dark Lord and his own fear clawing at the back of his mind.

So he worked tirelessly on the Vanishing Cabinet, practically living in the Room of Hidden Things, telling himself that if he keeps his hands occupied, then he can outrun his own traitorous thoughts.

He hated himself every moment of it.

He thought he’d feel relief, or satisfaction, when he finally finished the job, but there was nothing, nothing. He was an empty void.

He never wanted this, he realized, as he stood facing the wandless, wan form of Albus Dumbledore. He never wanted to be the one to make the choice of whether or not to take another’s life, he realized, as the Killing Curse caught in his throat.

He expected to see apprehension, or fear, or anger on the ancient face, but the old wizard simply looked calmly at the wand aimed at his chest, then at his eyes and into his stripped soul. “Good evening, Draco.” He said, almost casually.

The night sky was a deep, deep indigo, the stars smothered by the sickly green glow of the Dark Mark.

“Who else is here?” He gestured at the two brooms.

“A question I might ask you. Or are you acting alone?”

_ Alone, so very, very alone. _

He mustered his withered pride, willing his hands to steady themselves, “N-no. Death Eaters. There are Death Eaters in your school tonight.”

“Ah. Very good… Yet, where are they now?” Dumbledore looked at him expectantly, like he was merely questioning him about a homework assignment.

“Fighting the Order. I-I came ahead. I have a job to f-finish.” He was trembling, nails digging grey-blue marks into his clammy palm.

“Well, then you must go on and do it, my dear boy.”

Muffled bangs and shouts came from the staircase below, the sound of the battle drowned out by the heavy stone walls and the deafening silence.

Two simple words, that was all he had to say. Two simple words, and the protector of Hogwarts, the greatest wizard of his time, will be tumbling off the Astronomy Tower and into the suffocating, ink-black night.

Two simple words and yet, the curse was still caught in his throat.

Blood drained from Draco’s fingertips. What was wrong with him?

Slumped against the ramparts, halfway to his grave, Albus Dumbledore smiled.

“Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.”

A haunting echo of Harry Potter’s words.

“H-How do you know?”

“Ah,” blue eyes twinkled at him in the gloom, “you have tried, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year, Mr. Malfoy. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Though they were feeble attempts… So feeble, that I wonder whether or not your heart has been truly in it. You have yet to kill me, Draco, but you still hesitate, as right now.”

It was suddenly, very, very cold, on the tallest tower of Hogwarts. Frosty cyan winds bit into Draco’s back, along with this chilling conversation with a dying man.

“You knew it was me?”

“But of course. I was sure it was you from the very beginning. I have, believe it or not, been closely following your plans. However, there is no time to discuss ways and mean. Perhaps you should get the job done before your…accomplices arrive. ”

Another bang came from below, along with faint shouts.

Dumbledore slid lower down the ramparts, wintergreen creeping into his wrinkles and spreading under his cheekbones, chasing away healthy colours and dressing him like a corpse. His mouth twisted into another thin smile, no longer from the world of the living.

“Killing is not as easy as the innocents are fooled into believing, Draco,” Dumbledore said softly, “As you have clearly learned by now.”

He was disgusted with himself, from his faltering hand to his cowering heart.

“Stop it!” He growled, tears springing to his eyes, “Stop telling me I can’t do it, alright?! I’ve got to, don’t you realize?! I’ve got to kill you!  _ Him. _ He threatened- He’s going to torture my family in front of me,  _ Dumbledore _ ! Using spells I don’t even wish to know, and it’ll be all because of  _ me _ ! ME! He’ll hurt and kill them, and then he’ll hurt  _ me _ ! I’VE GOT TO DO THIS!”

“I’ve realized the difficulty of your situation, Draco.”

“I’ve gotten this far, haven’t I?” He said quietly, more to himself than Dumbledore, “I’ve fixed the cabinet… They thought I’d die, but I’m here… You… You’re at my mercy…”

Dumbledore simply gazed at him, sadness lapping behind his eyes, “Draco, I’m afraid it is my mercy, not yours, that matters now. A certain Mr. Potter was very keen on insisting that I find ways to, shall we say,  _ rescue _ you, from your dreadful situation.”

Electric blue sparks jolted down him spine.  _ No, no, no, no. Not him. Not Potter. _

“ _ Rescue _ me?”

“Ah yes. Risky business, it would be. If Voldemort had realized that Harry, and possibly me, knew of your plans, he would’ve killed you. However, we can speak freely now. But we’re certainly losing time. I have a proposal for you…”

A bang directly below them shook the ramparts.

“Look, he’s got Dumbledore cornered!” A sharp voice cried.

Footsteps sounded behind him, four hooded figures rushed onto the scene, wands raised, one of them strided forward, shouldering Draco out of the way. He threw his hood back, the others copying him. Draco was staring at the silhouettes of Severus Snape, Bellatrix Lestrange, and the Carrows, backlit by the thick green light of the Dark Mark.

The glimmer of hope dissolved like smoke before his eyes. He wiped his eyes angrily on his sleeve, stormy grey painting his night sky. He heard the cackling of Bellatrix, the jeers of Alecto, the solemn voice of Snape, yet they were far, far away.

He thought of Potter, with his green eyes and messy hair and his ridiculous hero complex. He thought of Potter, with his fierce colours and his light, chasing away Draco’s darkness. His insides twisted painfully as he admitted to himself that, what he felt for Potter was no longer hate. But it was all too late. Snape was levelling his wand, and Draco’s world was spiraling down, down, down.

_ I’m sorry,  _ he murmured in his head, as Potter’s memory sunk beneath black and white waves.

“Severus,” Dumbledore was pleading, rasping out his last words, “Severus, please.”

_ “Avada Kedavra.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I skip scenes, fight me.


	4. Black and White

“Do you recognize her, Draco?” A sharp voice dug into his eardrum.

“Yes… My lord.” He whispered. Not daring to meet the red, snake-like eyes.

He sat stiffly, along with other Death Eaters, in the drawing room of the Manor. Lord Voldemort reclined at the head of the table, his great snake, Nagini, curled around his shoulders.

“But you would never have taken her classes.” Voldemort said, glancing scornfully at the writhing figure suspended above their heads.

“No, my lord.”

“Indeed, today, we are joined by Charity Burbage, who, until recently, taught  _ Muggle Studies  _ at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” he paused, some Death Eaters bristled, one spat on the floor in disdain, “Professor Burbage taught the children of witches and wizards all about  _ muggles _ , and how they are not that much different from us… She spoke of them having ‘power that encompasses magic’, and being more, ‘advanced’, than witches and wizards.”

Laughter rose, cruel and piercing in the dark room. Professor Burbage spun in slow circles, fear tainting her features. She twisted towards Snape, “Severus…” She gasped, “Severus, please… Help…” But Snape was carved from stone.

“Silence, woman,” Voldemort hissed, flicking his wand, causing Burbage to cry out sharply, then he continued, “As if tainting the minds of wizarding children was not sufficient, Professor Burbage recently wrote an impassioned defense for  _ mudbloods  _ in the  _ Daily Prophet _ . The article informed the wizarding world that perhaps, wizards should learn to accept these  _ thieves  _ of our knowledge and magic, and that perhaps one day wizards and muggles can  _ collaborate  _ as friends and equals. She even stated that, the mixing of our ancient and sacred blood with their  _ muddy  _ race may be  _ beneficial _ , and the dwindling of purebloods is a  _ desired consequence… _ ”

The Death Eaters stirred, Bellatrix Lestrange glowered at the Charity Burbage, radiating barely-concealed hate. “This blood-traitor deserves to be ripped to shreds, my lord.” She snarled.

Burbage whimpered, struggling to meet Snape’s eyes.

“Draco,” Voldemort’s voice rang high and clear down the table, “would you do the honors?”

_ No, no, no. _

The scrape of his chair on wood was appallingly loud as he stood on shaky legs. His mother glanced at him, her hand clenching the arms of her chair imperceptibly tighter. His father stared ahead, eyes blank, face waxen. From Voldemort’s right-hand side, Snape’s soot-black gaze focused on him, he wondered if he’d imagined the fleeting sadness he saw.

_ You are not a killer. _

The ghosts of Dumbledore and Potter rose, their clamouring words like the tides in Draco’s head. His harsh breathing in the vacuum of the room, mixed with the cacophony of their voices, thrummed in his ears. He felt the hungry eyes of the Death Eaters like a thousand daggers digging into his neck, his back, his arms. He felt Voldemort’s rapacious attention, boring into the side of his head. Bone-white fingers twirled his father’s wand, taunting him, waiting to spring out like a coiled snake.

This is the price I pay, he thought, this is part of my punishment.

He trained his wand on the struggling form. He would not, could not, look into his victim’s eyes.

“ _ Avada Kedavra.” _

The blinding light filled the room, yet he was no longer sure if he could still see green.

Charity Burbage crumpled to the table. Unmoving. Dead.

“Nagini,” Voldemort said impassively, “dinner.”

The snake hissed its approval, crawling down the table like a gleeful shadow.

Draco sank back into his chair, watching in horror as Nagini lunged towards the body.

Fangs sank into the dead Professor’s neck, tearing out her windpipe in one great yank. The snake dove in again, severing her jugular vein. Dark blood spurted forth, pooling on the mahogany table. The professor’s once pristine features crumpled as blood drained rapidly from Nagini’s fangs. Some seated at the table backed away in disgust as chunks of muscles and tendons were ripped with sickening sounds and devoured messily.

The snake was relentless in its attacks, peeling back layers of skin with its gleaming fangs, until the corpse’s organs were put on a grotesque display.

Blood continued to drip from Burbage’s mangled form.

Draco was locked in his seat, paralyzed.

_ No more.  _ He’s mind feebly gasped,  _ please, no more. _

\------------------------------------

“Draco, dear,” Narcissa Malfoy called, “would you be as kind as to fetch me my green traveling cloak, please?”

“Yes, mother.”

He walked down the narrow corridor, pass the spluttering flames dancing in small torches. The smell of rotten flesh and blood wafted from the dungeons, and he felt dizzy as bile rose in his throat.

He took his best guess with the cloak. He was no longer sure of colours, they came and went, and more and more times, he reluctantly found himself thrust back into a black and white world. He tried to not dwell on what this meant.

He brought the cloak to his mother, helping her drape it across her frail shoulders.

“Draco,” Narcissa said slowly, her fingers pausing over the buttons, “This isn’t green. This is royal blue.”

“Oh, uh…” He stammered, “Um… It was rather dark when I was picking it out…”

“Darling,” his mother sighed, “I thought...”

“Mother, must we have this conversation?”

Narcissa sighed, sweeping silently past him to the door.

Draco let out the breath he was holding.

“Draco,” She turned, her hand poised over the knob, a sad smile on her lips, “Whoever they are… Just remember that, your father and I, we want you to be happy.”

_ Would you say the same if you knew he was Harry Potter, mother? _

_ The very boy whom I still, despite everything, cling onto so desperately? The very boy whom I fucked up every single chance I had with? _

_ How can he ever love me back, mother? _


	5. It's Raining Every Time I Open My Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why does the story suddenly get more interesting, that's because some of the conversation is canon. The lines are blurred. Just go with it.

Draco wanted to claw out his eyes, wanted to dig his fingernails into the flesh of his arm until he rips the ugly Dark Mark out of his skin. He couldn’t stop seeing them- the terrified faces of muggleborns chained to the walls, their wounds festering; the horror in the children’s eyes as their parents were tortured before their eyes; the blank faces of half-bloods and blood traitors, brutally murdered, thrown into mass grades like diseased livestock.

He no longer held any illusion that Voldemort’s cause was, in any way, justified. Draco was sick of watching Bellatrix slice open her prisoner’s wrists and arms, cackling as she kicked sand and dirt into their wounds. He was sick of watching Greyback maul blood-traitors and muggles alike, slicking the ground with their black blood.

He observed how Voldemort held his followers under his thumb, bending them to his will by dangling prizes or pointed threats. He saw how they all fell, one by one, into the boundless spiral of sins.

Hell, he thought about slicing his wrist open a couple more times, locked in the solitude of his own room, haunted by nightmares. He thought about putting an end to his guilt. But the shred of self-preservation left in him forced him to rationalize- the death of him will not end Voldemort’s campaign, it will only end his own guilt. Voldemort will simply find another puppet to carry out his commands.

He dreamt the wild, fuzzy black and white dreams of one with little to lose. He no longer feared, because for fuck’s sake, he was seeing worse and worse things every day. He knew, down in his core, the only redemption left for him was to take Voldemort down with him.

There was nothing left in him, or so he told himself. Only hatred was constnt. He hated,  _ Merlin,  _ he  _ hated _ Voldemort with each pulse of his heart, disgusted with the monster that hides behind the pretense of a man, a mutation without an ounce of humanity left inside the stone-cold heart.

Voldemort cared too much for Narcissa and Lucius’s loyalty to let harm come to them, Draco had realized. He also realized that, Voldemort kept his parents in line with the threat of his own safety, knowing the degree of devastation it would cause them, should he be hurt.

On his part, Draco pretended that the threats were effective. He quietly, but reluctantly, fulfilled his tasks. He also managed to slink in the corners, avoiding the Dark Lord’s attention. He neither acted overly enthusiastic, nor outright defied his orders. Some scorned him for his cowardice, but he didn’t mind. He played up the image of the cowering follower, using his young age to his advantage, neither displaying his father’s notorious pride nor his aunt’s skillful cruelty, letting Voldemort deem him invaluable and unworthy of personal attention.

No one considered him as a threat.

But Draco had started waging his rebellion, after the day Yalexy made him take in a nine-year-old daughter of a ministry worker. He still heard her screams days after her death, tossing and turning in sleepless nights, staring up at greying stars.

He knew Potter was still alive. If the Death Eaters captured Potter, it’d surely be all over the news, and he would be one of the first to hear it. He clung onto that shred of clue as he thought of an escape, desperately hoping that by luck, he’d be able to track down Potter or his friends, then finding a way to return to Hogwarts or join the Order of the Phoenix.

Draco was on thin ice, every moment he feared that he will go spiralling down into the dark pit of guilt, deeper than Tartarus. He dared not to think too much, working tirelessly and desperately until he crashes into his crumpled pale sheets, dreaming about green eyes like he was finally coming home.

\--------------------------------

The opportunity crashed through the clouds like a shooting star.

Draco could barely believe his luck as the Snatchers hauled in a goblin, Dean Thomas, Weasley, Granger, and a person whom, despite the wicked stinging jinx, Draco recognized as Potter.

He struggled to keep his mask from melting off his face.

_ Merciful Merlin.  _ Draco took a deep breath as colours seeped back into his world, adrenaline pumping through him. The air felt sweeter and lighter in his chest. His head spun and his heart pounded, he had never felt so alive in months.  _ This is it,  _ he thought.

“Well, Draco?” His father was saying, excitement dripping from his voice, “Is it Potter?”

“I-I can’t be sure.”

“Look closer,” Lucius urged him to crouch down in front of the prisoners, “If we can hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, then everything would be forgiven… He’d reward us… Think about how it’d help…”

Draco feigned interest on inspecting Potter’s distorted face. He knew why Lucius Malfoy was so excited, handing Potter over to Voldemort would undoubtedly raise them to the most honorable position amongst the Death Eaters, and Lucius and Draco’s past mistakes would all be forgiven, earning them the Dark Lord’s favour.

“I don’t think it’s him.” He said, studying the swelling around Potter’s eyes, searching for the hint of green. He thought Potter might’ve nodded to him, while his father and Greyback bickered over taking credits.

“What about the mudblood, then?” Greyback grunted, and Draco blood boiled at the offensive term, “Look,” The werewolf yanked Granger under the light, “They said she’s traveling with Potter!”

“I can’t say I could recall her looks.” Draco answered. Granger narrowed her eyes slightly, despite the fear on her face.

“But the  _ Prophet- _ ” Lucius’ eyes lit up, “Narcissa, her picture is there! Fetch me the  _ Prophet. _ ”

Draco’s mother summoned a copy, her face pale in the shadows.

“Granger…” Lucius breathed, holding up the faded newspaper, “The picture looks an awful lot like her.”

Draco walked back to his place next to the fireplace, hands cold, heart sinking. The dwindling orange flames mocked him for his silly attempts to stall.

“And there’s Weasley!” His father was jabbing a finger triumphantly at the redhead, “I’d recognize the sons of that blood-traitor anywhere!” Wealsey’s shoulders tensed, and his arms jerked against the ropes.

A tall figured entered the room. “What is this, Cissy?”

_ Well, shit. _

Draco’s aunt strode forward, chin raised, dark hair rippling down her back. The lights in the room faltered at the shadows, long on her heels. Bellatrix Lestrange, Voldemort’s prized lieutenant, descended upon the prisoners, wand eager by her side.

She scrutinized Granger under hooded eyelids, brows drawn low as the pieces clicked together inside her head. “The mudblood.” She spat, lips pulled back into a horrible sneer.

“Yes, yes, the mudblood Granger!” His father cried hastily, “We think we got Potter and his mates!”

“Potter?!” Bellatrix exclaimed, twisting to stare at the red and shiny face, “Are you certain? Draco?”

“I-I don’t know-” “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about!” Lucius yelled, “Look carefully, Bellatrix, I saw the scar!”

“The scar…” She murmured, holding up a long finger up to Potter’s forehead. Potter shrank back sharply. “Aha!” She shrieked, digging her fingernail into the scar, “It hurts, doesn’t it, boy?!” A muffled groan came from Potter’s puffy cheeks, and she drew back her finger to hit him. The blow echoed across the room, only making Bellatrix laughed viciously. Out of the light, Draco clenched his hands into fists.

“It is Potter!” She proclaimed, crazed smile twisting her strong features. She yanked back her sleeve, “the Dark Lord must be informed at once!”

“Bellatrix!” Lucius grabbed her wrist, inches above the skull and snake, “I believe Potter has been brought under _ my  _ authority-”

“Authority?!” She jeered, high voice rising over his, “You lost your authority when you lost your wand,  _ Lucius.  _ You have no claim to this honor-” “This is  _ my  _ house, he was brought to  _ my  _ Manor-” “It does not belong to you any more than it belongs to the Dark Lord, Malfoy!” She barked, struggling to free her wrist, “ _ I  _ will summon him! Get your hands off me,  _ now _ !”

“We wouldn’t be forgetting who caught them, would we?” Greyback asked loudly, “And we would lay claims to the gold-”

“ _ Gold? _ ” Screamed Bellatrix, “Take your filthy gold, Greyback! I care nothing about go-”, she faltered, her manic eyes landed on the sword in a Snatcher’s hands, “ _ What is that _ ?”

“A sword, missus. I found it.”

His father took the opportunity to attempt to rip back his own sleeve.

“STOP!” Bellatrix screeched, “Stop, Lucius! If the Dark Lord comes now, we shall all perish!”

Lucius hesitated, and Draco’s mind raced,  _ what’s the sword got to do with anything? _

“Give it to me.” She said, voice dropping dangerously.

“I’m afraid it’s not yours-”

Her wand shot out, faster than a pixie’s wings, “ _ Stupefy! _ ” The snatcher went down in a red bang, while his companions hurried to draw their wands…“ _ Stupefy! Stupefy!” _ Two lay motionless on the ground, and Bellatrix towered over Greyback as she forced him to his knees, her eyes glinting dangerously.

Draco made a show of scrambling to drag the unconscious Snatchers to the corner, out of the others’ sight, slipping their wands up his sleeve.

He blink to clear the spots left in his vision from the Stunners. He’d forgotten how sharp the colour red could be.

Red…He stared at ruby hilt of the sword, now clutched in Bellatrix’s slender hands as Greyback crouched whimpering. Red. Gryffindor red. Gordric Gryffindor.  _ Oh… Gryffindor’s sword.  _  He’d overheard Bellatrix and Snape speaking of it. How Snape kept the sword in his office, but some D.A. members attempted to steal it. Snape deemed the sword no longer safe at Hogwarts, and he planned on sending it to her Gringotts vault.

He understood why her aunt was distraught. If they’d been inside Bellatrix’s vault, and his speculations were correct…

_ All the better, _ he thought. His aunt’s confusion will buy him some time. He knew that once she made her decision and summons Voldemort, his best chance would slip right through his fingers. His heart jolted, he could  _ not  _ let that happen. He absolutely refused to let Potter get away from him,  _ again.  _ Hope rose inside him like wildfire.

“Draco,” Bellatrix was saying, “Take these prisoners down to the cellar, make sure they are secure! But wait… All except… Except for the mudblood.”

Greyback licked his lips appreciatively, a predatory grin spreading on his hairy face. “Now, Bellatrix, say, once you’re finished with the girl…”

“No!” Weasley croaked, “Take me instead!”

He’s got guts, Draco would give him that. He winced as Bellatrix backhanded him over the bruise already forming on his cheekbone, snapping his head to the side like ragdoll. A trail of bloody saliva trickled from his mouth and he kept his head turned, wheezing through his no doubt blood-clogged windpipe.

Bellatrix rose, satisfied. She took out a silver knife, cutting Granger free from the rest, then dragged her by her hair to the center of the room. Draco strode forward carefully, herding the prisoners through the door and into the staircase. The stinging hex was subsiding on Potter’s face, he noted, and he could feel his heated gazed burning in the dark.

He opened to door, keeping his wand trained on them as they shuffled in. Potter paused, and when Draco reluctantly met his eyes, he said quietly, “Why?”

_ Good Merlin.  _ Even in the dim light, Draco could tell that he was seeing colours again. From the metallic blue of his  _ lumos  _ to the smear of brown dirt on Potter’s chin, they washed the off the grey like rain on pavements. He struggled to pull himself back together.

“No time for story-telling, Potter,” he hurried on, listening to Bellatrix’s impatient pacing upstairs, “Say, you’d just happen to know that house elves can apparate your mates out of here. You’d take the others first, then, you’d come upstairs and take Granger, and they’d be distracted and too surprised at first to fight back…” “Malfoy…” “I can’t take them head on, Bellatrix’s too powerful, but follow the plan and you’ll stand a chance.” “But…” “I’ve got to go, Potter. Be careful.”

He clanged the door shut, just as a long, drawn out scream sounded upstairs.


End file.
